A Devil's Bargain
by Post Baily
Summary: A literary take on the first meeting with the King of Thieves.


A Devil's Bargain

_A Fable 2 fanfiction. All characters and places within belong to Lionhead Studios. Even though either gender is available to play within the game I leaned mostly towards a female Hero. Substitute a male Hero in your mind if that works for you, either gender works. I thought I would see what a literary take would look like if the first meeting with Reaver were to be put into words_._ Some artistic liberties have taken place. Don't mind me._

Over the rise of the cliff the sea beckoned; a welcoming fresh breeze laden with moisture and the smell of salt was a convivial change in comparison to the dampen rot Sparrow had just fought through. Wraithmarsh lay behind her, with all its not unsubstantial horrors with it. The stories failed to compare to the actual place as one nightmare after another had risen to challenge the Hero. Slowly, the tightness in Sparrow's muscles begun to unwind as she made her way down a rocky path in the dusk towards the glittering lights of the ill-begotten pirate town Bloodstone.

In her mind the eerie glow of the walking dead eye's still followed her; she must have slain close to a couple hundred Hollow Men, it was as though for each one she shattered like a dried husk of wood two more would take its place. Then there was the silent waltz through the ruins of Oakvale, something that would surely haunt her dreams. Only death remained there, stagnant in time, unchanging and heavy with unnatural black fog. A graveyard of immeasurable proportions. Broken homes and lives, frozen forever and now a playground for unnatural things. She still had the smell of decay clinging to her hair, her clothing. Grimly, she wondered how far her vengeance would take her; always the question _is it worth this? Is it really?_ Rose's face always answered her, her sister's smile and voice. A voice that was silenced more than two decades ago that would never fade from memory. Yes, it is worth anything.

A soft jingle of a dog collar drew her from heavy thoughts and her faithful companion butted his furry head against her thigh, anxious to move on and away from the marsh. Letting out a deep breath she momentarily laid her hand on his head and picked up the pace, the nearly endless Heroic force moving her with unnatural speed, ready and able as always.

The view before her was in fact a remarkable one; Bloodstone was set into a cove surrounded by the vast sea. Above it rose an impressive cliffside, in the harbor dozens of ships lay anchored to their moorings and the town itself closed and crowded together with the exception of one large house that overlooked the rest. In the opposite distance, visible really from any coastline in Albion, lay the Spire. A dark and sullen punctuation mark in the deep blue ocean, a promise waiting to be fulfilled.

Sparrow had only a moments warning, a slight warmth of presence from the guild seal, before Theresa's voice was in her head

_The house you will be looking for is the largest in Bloodstone. There you will find Reaver. I suggest you make the Thief's acquaintance_.

and just as quickly the shadowed presence of the gypsy woman's voice was gone, abrupt and to the point as always. Not that Sparrow needed any direction as she came upon the waterfront and the first civilization she had come across since beginning the ill-begotten journey to find the last Hero. Her poverty stricken childhood had actually served her well throughout many a misadventure. It had irrevocably given her not only the ability to read people's motives but to _survive_ under nearly any circumstances. When home is a scrap wood pile and hunger a constant companion you can only go up in the world. It was this ability that told her three things immediately upon entering Bloodstone: Firstly, these people would just soon as slit your throat as look at you. Secondly, personal justice would be delivered painfully and with large quantities of blood if provoked and lastly Sparrow had better keep one hand on her purse and the other one on her cutlass at all times.

It was a bleak reminder of what her life could have been without Rose's care; short, without hope and without love. Even if the world around them was filled with harshness they loved each other wholly and without reservation and it had been enough.

Sparrow pulled her face into a blank grim mask; another trick she had picked up to keep unwanted attention away. Her Heroic blood had already given her a formidable herculean body; only a fool would start something with a large woman advertising violence by way of wicked weaponry so prominently displayed and in this place of malevolent hostility so openly offered by its townspeople Sparrow could read greed, lust and brutality in equal parts. It was with dark humor that she wondered which she preferred – the murky and damp dangers of Wraithmarsh or the open vice of Bloodstone. As she walked stiffly, swiftly through crooked dim streets towards the mansion its inhabitants passed by her with glinting dark eyes, weighing the merits of robbery and rape. Judging her, pushing boundaries with slurs and insults yet something about her kept them just at bay; her hard earned reputation, perhaps or the way she moved – without fear and with the promise of retaliation.

It was a nocturnal town, certainly. As the sun furthered its retreat behind the cliffs, the louder it became. From the Leper's Arms tavern came the clink of glass and raucous laughter and banter as its patrons got further in their cups. From the shadowy porch of a crooked house came,

"Hey luvvie, how bout' we work off some of that…tension?"

A progressive town, then, as the offer was repeated (and staunchly refused) several times by men and women both.

As true darkness settled in, barely illuminated by a starry sky, Sparrow stopped before two massive iron gates that kept the impressive home separated from the filth of the rest of the town. They lay open invitingly. Curious, that. A man who has no fear of what or who he may be letting in or a man who knew she was coming?

The Bloodstone mansion was a study of opulence; it was large enough to dwarf several of its shabby neighbors and gleamed with expensive material as its neighbors were falling apart with neglect. A sculptured fountain tinkled sweetly amidst precise and beautifully manicured landscaping while the front of the mansion was built on solid, clean lines of wood and brick. Double sweeping stairs led up to an open front door and before making her way up those stairs Sparrow leaned down to her companion and whispered,

"Stay here, boy. Hopefully I won't be long."

Trusting her companion to take care of himself until she returned Sparrow made her way slowly, feet silent on a cobble stone walkway. As she ascended the steps a figure moved out of shadow and she tensed briefly, hard earned reflexes itching for the feel of steel. The form standing before her certainly wasn't a pretty one; a hard life and probable poor diet had given him the appearance of something that had been mauled by a large cat. Or a Balverine. An angular and craggy face blackened by dirt and marred by scars stared insolently at Sparrow as he took a leisurely look up and down her figure. She noted that her first instincts had been correct; he showed no surprise at seeing her. While Sparrow maintained some humble instincts she was also aware that women of her stature and that had ownership of finely crafted cutlass and firearms were few and far between. Often people identified her by her – glowing swords that cleave vicious and clawed creatures like wet tissue were hard to come by in Albion and even fewer people possessed the prowess to wield such a blade successfully.

Being done with his inspection the man at the door twitched his lips in what could pass as a smile and grated,

"Lookin' fer Reaver, luv? Go'n through the back."

Without bothering to answer she stepped into the brightly lit mansion and stopped short. It was as though she had stepped into a completely separate world than the desperate and dirty one that lay outside. The Thief had done well for himself. Everything gleamed; the parquet flooring reflected her own startled image back at her through expertly dyed (and undoubtedly expensive) wood. To the right a grand staircase led to upper floors and the receiving room she stood in was tastefully decorated with large and grand furniture. In the center lay a beautifully woven rug she recognized as inordinately expensive. She had trod on something similar on that fated night in Castle Fairfax, all those long years ago.

Perhaps it was this recognition that put Sparrow on edge as she made her way through labrinthed halls and unused rooms (filled with items of immeasurable cost) following a distant voice that gained in strength as she neared what was the east wing of the home. As she stepped through a small hallway leading out of a dining hall and she could finally make out the words that seemed to be berating,

" …to get my _good_ side, we don't want another mishap do we?"

There was a murmured assent and Sparrow stepped into what was a large study. In that moment before she made her presence known a fast glance told her this room was much like the others; hardwood furniture, bookcases lining the walls, a fireplace merrily crackling away and the most conspicuous of all, a man. Before her was undoubtedly the owner of the overly extravagant mansion. Reaver, the Pirate King, the Thief and final Hero stood boldly in the center of the room, poised with shining pistol in the air as a meek looking artist sketched on a large canvas on the opposite end of the room. Sparrow could only stare as he languidly gave her his profile from his position, dark eyes devouring the details of her person.

"Well, well, well. Do come in!"

It was as though she was hearing his voice through water. The jovial, purring tone belied everything she was seeing before her. His face was a beautiful study of symmetry, high cheek bones, an aquiline nose and sensuous lips that quirked up in sardonic amusement as she studied him and he was very well aware of it. A tall man, he could even have possibly matched Sparrow in height, and that was no easy task. The cut of his frock and trousers fit a lean and graceful body to perfection, sturdy boots accentuating long legs and a deep crimson color set off dark, carelessly tousled hair. Sparrow dragged her eyes back up and felt a jolt of shock as she met his. Everything she needed to know was in just one glance.

He burned. In those dark eyes was something frighteningly intelligent, sharp and hungry. The terrible viciousness in that gaze touched something in her that she often tried to deny; in the heat of battle the carnal lust of blood and destruction. Here it was unrestrained, unapologetic. Here was a man who would devour her if she faltered one step.

"How lovely to have a visitor! I don't often get company to my little coastal paradise." He paused, taking in her form and she wondered what she must look like; travel stained, dirty, lean and well proportioned. The mysterious Will lines often attracted attention, she wondered what the Thief made of them and felt the hair rise on her neck as his eyes narrowed and his expression became something heated and ravenous.

"Especially ones that may well redefine a man's concept of …'paradise'."

It was only the weight of experience of a long and rough life that kept her face placid and emotionless. The Thief was setting before Sparrow a challenge in which incredible odds lay. A game that involved the hardness of her resolve and quickness of mind against that of a master of duplicity. Theresa had made it plain very early on that four Heroes would be required to take back Albion from a madman. Only those who represented the epitome of Strength, Will and Skill had even the remotest chance of succeeding. Without this man's cooperation all would be lost and the bastard _knew_, Sparrow could read it in his face, that he had something she needed and there would be the devil to pay to get it.

"I do hope this isn't an inconvenience. I only just arrived to this lovely town." she returned, a shamelessly false smile curving her lips.

Not breaking his poise (the artist an unobtrusive presence in the background) Reaver let out a short barking laugh, all previous sensuality evaporated in the face of sport.

"Not in the least, my dear. How do you find Bloodstone to your liking?"

"A little landscaping and a firebomb would go a long way."

Reaver chuckled appreciatively. "Beauty _and_ wit! What a lucky night this has turned out to be."

Shifting his weight slightly against the podium he had one foot raised upon he gave Sparrow a calculating look.

"Some refreshments, perhaps? I know after a romp through Wraithmarsh I always find myself parched."

Without waiting for Sparrow to answer he continued,

"You know, on the _rare_ occasion someone actually makes it through Wraithmarsh they come out rather worse than they came in. Lost…confused…scared. But not you! You seem to be searching for someone. And, let's face it," his voice turned smug, "if you're looking for someone in Bloodstone who else could it be, but _me_."

Amusement warred with irritation. The superior, self-satisfied peacock made it sound as though she had sought him out to fall at his feet in adoration instead of a quest for a desperate mission to save the world.

"Indeed, I am seeking a man whose talents with a pistol are legendary."

It was a truth, plainly stated yet Reaver's face became even more self-satisfied if such a thing were possible.

"That's not the only talent of mine that's legendary, sweetling."

Nerves already stretched taut after an exhaustive battle through unnatural swamp, little sleep and an increasing urgency to gather all of the Hero's for a final assault against a hated enemy made Sparrow gave in to heated temper and she grated out,

"Enough banter! I didn't fight my way past trolls and banshees to ask for a damned autograph! I came here to-"

Reaver cut her off, sliding his beautifully crafted pistol into its holster while slowly advancing towards Sparrow.

"I know why you're here. I know who you are; you have so many names, you know. Lionheart, Bounty Hunter, Butcher," his lips curved mercilessly around each name, mockingly, contemptuously, "…Sparrow. People speak of impossible deeds." he continued in a high mocking voice, " 'Have heroes come back to Albion!' 'Who is this person!' So on, so forth and I really couldn't care less."

Reaver stopped before her, the shadow cast by fire playing with his features, distorting them. This close to him she could smell the expensive cologne; dark and warm and spicy. She couldn't tear her eyes away; he was beautiful and so very dangerous. The room held a sort of deadly silence, so thick was the tension that even the soft scritch of the pencil strokes by the artist had stopped; an instinctive urge of a prey animal to blend into the background lest they be found.

"So many stories! I wonder which are true? I believe my favorite is where you waltzed right out of Lucien's Spire…"

Score one for the devious bastard; Sparrow's face lost the battle against hiding emotion and gave him the satisfaction of shock. How much did he know? Reaver continued on chuckling darkly,

"Now it occurs to me that someone of such…_renown_ wouldn't be satisfied with merely escaping but now you have some cockamamie idea of going back in there and taking him down! With my help, of course."

Taking advantage of Sparrow's dazed silence Reaver swiveled around and sauntered back to the podium.

"Hmmm…that is tempting. Who knows what lovelies the old loon has hoarded all to himself?"

He speared the artist with a quailing look and snapped, "Who told you to stop?"

After she had begun sketching again with trembling hands he continued,

"But here's the problem; you've done all sorts of…_impressive_ things and yet none of those things have benefited me."

Sparrow let out a gust of breath, partially out of tension but mostly in exasperation.

"And what would you have of me? Slay a dragon for you? Carry a mountain on my back?"

"No, no! Nothing so strenuous, my precious. In fact…why yes! I believe I have the perfect solution!"

"There is a certain item I need returned to its rightful owners in Wraithmarsh. They live in an enchanting place called the Shadow Court."

Turning from his pose again he gave Sparrow an unrepentant grin, charisma and charm oozing from every pore, all previous tension gone.

"I'd do it myself, pumpkin, but my relationship with the owners is…complicated. And you wouldn't have me send my associates, would you? Hardly trustworthy…"

Sparrow kept grimly silent. The game was now stacked in Reaver's favor; he had her and he knew it. If it meant his cooperation she would have to make the damned trek _back_ into that place.

As if sensing her silent consent his grin widened.

"The item that needs to be returned is over there; see that little _objet d'art_?"

He nodded his head towards a wide oak desk that held scattered papers and books. Upon it lay an object that made Sparrow's blood run cold.

It was built on the same lines of her guild seal; a small, flat, round metal object with an emblem etched in the center. However, where the guild seal always felt warm and welcoming against her body this seal had a darkness to it and even through the thick leather of her glove she felt its chill. So much so it seemed to bite into her skin. Taking a handkerchief from a pocket she wrapped it tightly and shoved it in her pack.

She straightened and turned to face the Thief who now looked like the proverbial cat who swallowed a canary.

"There's a good lass," he purred. "Just come back and see me when you've dropped it off. I'll be waiting most anxiously for your return."

Pride decisively wounded Sparrow turned to leave from the room but not before turning slightly and letting furious rage choose her parting words.

"I don't give my word lightly, Thief, but I give it in this; when I return, and make no mistake I _will_ return, you're coming with me. One way or another."

"_Lovely_. You're just full of spunk, aren't you? Are you certain you don't want a private tour of my…home before you leave?"

Sparrow only let out an exasperated snort before she turned on her heel and walked back through the doorway. After the booming laughter died down, echoing through the empty hallway, she caught a last snatch of conversation between the egotistical scoundrel and the unfortunate artist.

"Do you _really_ think my cheekbones are anywhere NEAR that low?"

The explosive sound of a pistol shot ripped through the home and Sparrow jerked, turning back before she stopped herself again; it was too late.

She didn't even remember the walk back through Bloodstone, searching for a halfway decent tavern where she could finally rest her weary body. The return of her dog was a small comfort in a whirlwind of events. Tomorrow would be another day, she would walk another road and certainly face unknown dangers. There was a small flame of victory, however, that burned inside of her; she was that much closer to Lucien and his defeat.


End file.
